


Free Her

by Archimime



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Horror, Leroux elements, M/M, Modern AU, Mystery, Romance, doesn't make sense, not too spoopy don't worry, the scandal!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-04-30 12:13:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5163425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archimime/pseuds/Archimime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The old Opera du Palais Garnier has been closed down for repairs for over three years. Locals say that strange accidents have delayed it's restoration, but many in Paris whisper of the legend of the Opera Ghost. College students Christine and Raoul have a reputation for bending the rules, especially when haunted locations are involved. But, little do they know that history has a tendency to repeat itself...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. She Returns: Part 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [baneofboredom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/baneofboredom/gifts).



> I don't know what I'm doing here. I'm so sorry baneofboredom if this is not the thing you wanted it to be.

"Raoul come on!"

Christine was shouting ahead of him, a smile lighting up her rosy face. She spun on her heel, laughing as the gentle snow came down all around them. Little droplets clung to the curls in her hair. Raoul swallowed the lump in his throat.

"Slow down, Mademoiselle!" he teased, finding his voice at last. He jogged up to her and she spun again to face him.

"What?" She tilted her head. "Too slow to keep up with me?"

He smiled. "I don't think anyone could catch you if they tried."

She hummed pleasantly in response. Raoul caught her by the end of her scarf, which was coming undone around her shoulders.

"It's dangerous to wear your scarf the way you do," he said as he looped it over her head. He hesitated to pull her hair through, but she made no move to stop him, encouraging the contact with a coy giggle. "Do you remember the last time you forgot to adjust your scarf?"

"How could I forget," she began fondly, "There was a little boy who waded into the frozen lake to fetch it for me." She tapped him on the nose with a small vocal "boop" and he blushed furiously.

"It's almost too cold for wading today," he said with a sudden awkward laugh. "But I'd do it again."

"Just to save an old scarf?" asked Christine with a sly grin.

"Just to save you the trouble of having to get a new one," Raoul replied a little too quickly. A thousand wrong ways she could take his statement flashed through his overactive mind, even as she looped her arm through his.

She leaned her head on his shoulder, urging him forward and dashing his worries away.

"You're still the same little boy who rescued my scarf," she whispered.

"Hey," he grunted with mock offense. "I think I've changed a bit since then."

"You don't pull my hair or steal my dolls for one thing."

He elbowed her playfully as they walked along. They passed several street lamps glowing gently in the flurry that set the sky overcast. The streets of Paris were slick and wet with the fresh snow. But the pair of Raoul and Christine hardly felt the cold at all. And the growing dark only served to lighten the sparks in their eyes as they gazed at the wonder of the evening city.

"Look," Christine gasped, tugging Raoul's sleeve. "It's the Palais Garnier."

The most famous Opera House in Paris loomed down the street before them. A towering silhouette of white dust-flecked splendor of ages past. A hasty barrier had been erected with caution tape and concrete blocks, the traffic droning on around the large empty space left before the building. Its doors were barred by more modern barriers. A sternly printed notice was waving haphazardly just below a hinge in the slight wind.

"Aw," pouted Christine. "Why is it closed off like that?"

Raoul chuckled.

"What?"

"You haven't heard the stories?" His eyes twinkled in the street light. He lowered his voice. "Workers have been trying to fix it up for over a year now but no one has been able to make any progress."

"Why not?" asked Christine with a shiver. Raoul jumped slightly when she tightened her hold on his arm. He swallowed, capturing her other hand in his own.

"They say it is the Opera Ghost," said Raoul, giving her cold hand a squeeze. She gave him a lopsided frown.

"You don't have to believe me," he continued with a smile, "Just know that there have been strange accidents, weird injuries. They say that someone almost died even."

"Almost," dead-panned Christine. "I'm shaking in my shoes, Raoul."

"Ok so maybe I'm not the best at scary stories," he sighed, tucking her bare hand into his sleeve.

"You tried," Christine hummed.

"Hey lovebirds!" called a thin voice from behind them. Raoul and Christine spun around instantly, disentangling themselves from each other.

A young boy stood before them, laughing in his overly large winter jacket.

"Just wondering if you wanted a copy of the paper," he held out a freshly inked copy, impish face turned up in a grin that only the wise and child-weary could recognize as faked. "Dying business you know." The boy continued with a sniff. "Internet and all that."

Christine glanced down at the headline: COLLEGE GRADUATE STILL MISSING. THE GHOST OF THE OPERA HOUSE STRIKES AGAIN.

"We'll take two copies," Christine said at once.

"What?" Raoul stuttered.

"Thanks lady," grinned the boy as she deposited a few coins in his outstretched palm. Raoul frowned as the child scampered away.

"Why did you buy two? Wait, more importantly, why did you buy even one to begin with?"

"Look," Christine squeaked, pointing excitedly at the front page. "I think this guy might be from our university. A real mystery, Raoul!"

"I thought you were over ghost stories," he sighed.

"Maybe _your_ ghost stories, Messier Goosebumps, but this looks really exciting." She wiggled her shoulders enticingly and he found himself agreeing wholeheartedly. "You still remember how to pick a lock?"

"Christine," he pleaded.

She threw her arms into the air and he knew that he was fighting a losing battle.

"We explore the Opera House, tomorrow night!"


	2. She Returns: Part 2

Christine couldn't think of a better way to spend the winter break.

Pulling on her knee high black socks and lacing up her black boots, she felt like the picture of sleuthing success. The good-natured girl from across the hall had lent her a black turtleneck sweater and a much loved pair of walkie talkies that hadn't been used for years. Christine's generous friend simply thought that she was collecting the items for a long winter hiking trip. Christine decided to decline correcting her, worried that the girl, Meg Giry, would either try to stop her or would even want to adventure with them into the old opera house.

It had startled Christine how much she wanted to keep her and Raoul's little adventure a secret. Meg Giry was often her closest confident ever since she moved into the small cottage that she and her mother shared. Christine was happy to pay the meager rent each month as she attended classes with the landlady's spirited daughter, especially when said landlady felt the need to treat her like another daughter. Most young adults were happy to get out of the house they shared with their parents in their pursuit of a higher education. But Christine felt a warm glow around her heart every time Madame Giry presented her with another homemade meal or reminded her to wear a hat every morning before she left the house. It was good to have a woman who cared about her. Her real mother hardly sufficed.

But the journey to the opera house still felt like a personal secret to Christine.

So, she was sure to avoid the creak on the left side of the third stair on her way down to the door of the cottage. She glanced back up the stairs, noticing the light peaking out from under Meg's door. Christine hesitated for a moment, worried that the girl might discover her later that night when she made her way back from the opera house.

"Silly night owl," Christine murmured fondly, deciding to take her chances.

Her heart soared with anticipation and relief as she reached for the handle of the cottage door.

"Good Evening, Christine."

And almost in the same instant, her heart leapt into her throat and all the color of joy and relief drained from her face. Christine turned.

It was the Madame Giry, sitting with her ankles crossed politely at the small kitchen table. She was peering over her thin reading glasses, a crisp newspaper tucked between her slender fingers. She wore a modest gray dress as usual, a facet of her character that at once endeared her to Christine when they first met. Now, in the outdated light of the gas lamp flickering on the center of the round kitchen table, Madame Giry glowed like an apparition flickering to life straight from the past.

"What is the hurry to be out in this weather, child?" Madame Giry asked, eyes never leaving the newspaper spilling over into her lap. "Why not wait till tomorrow when the sun will be shining?"

Christine adjusted the walkie talkies on her belt, turning to hide them from view. Her throat felt very dry. And every word that threatened to tumble out of her mouth in reply was quickly swallowed whole again every time her eyes caught the rhythmic movement of Madame Giry's heeled foot tapping gently at the legs of the table.

"I hope that you weren't thinking of going somewhere you shouldn't," Madame Giry continued, folding the paper to finally fix Christine with a pointed stare. Christine swallowed an involuntary squeak when she noticed the headline on the paper. She remembered suddenly that she had not been able to find her copy of the newspaper she had purchased yesterday evening.

"And what," drawled Madame Giry, "is so fascinating about visiting the scene of a possible crime?" She tapped the bolded letters of the paper that declared the tragedy of the missing graduate student.

"I was just going to meet up with Raoul," said Christine quietly. It was not a complete lie.

Madame Giry smiled. "You practically give yourself away, child. You're an open book to any who know you. And I would be saddened to hear your continued excuses. They aren't like you at all."

Christine sighed, strangely moved by the softening of Madame Giry's voice at her last confession.

"We just wanted to know what was in there," admitted Christine. "It was my idea, so don't be upset at Raoul. He thought the idea was stupid."

"For good reason," nodded Madame Giry, nose turning up sternly. "That opera house is a dangerous place. Falling apart most likely even in it's prime."

"It's the most celebrated opera house in Paris," Christine blurted, regretting it even as the words left her lips.

"Ah yes," Madame Giry cooed, looking almost nostalgic. Then, suddenly stern and serious once more: "Celebrated because it's so surrounded in myth, falsehood, tragedy, and the overemotional drama of the stage. Its ruin's aren't worth your youthful interest."

"Sound's like you know a thing or two about the Opera House," muttered Christine. Madame Giry sighed as the young woman's eyes lit up with renewed interest.

"Enough to know that it is not a place a young lady should travel to alone at night," said Madame Giry firmly.

"I won't be alone," said Christine. "I'll have Raoul with me."

"All the more reason not to go."

"Can I at least ask how you got ahold of the paper?"

Madame Giry smiled, lips pulled in a secretive expression that could rival the Mona Lisa for mystery and even beauty. She let this be her answer. She rose from her chair, skirts swaying all the way over to the counter where a dark pot of coffee brewed.

"Could I fix you a cup of coffee before you go to bed?" asked Madame Giry. And that was the end of the night's adventures.

******

Raoul couldn't think of a worse way to spend the winter break.

So, he was relieved when his phone lit up with a message from Christine saying that the whole ordeal was cancelled. He rolled over on his bed with a contented sigh, scratching lazily at his chest.

He was just ready to close his eyes when the screaming started.

His bloodshot eyes snapped open and he stared angrily at the ceiling. It was his brother, Philippe, and his newest model "friend" the next wall over. In a house with over thirty rooms and he chose to bunk with his latest one-night treasure in the hall closet just outside Raoul's room. In his sleep deprived state, he suddenly had the crazed notion that perhaps this was another one of Philippe's harebrained plans to get him to pursue one of the many women of fashion that he had thrown his way over the years.

"Wealthy women of style and taste are the best in bed," Philippe always told him. "Of course, don't neglect your poor little country girl either."

Philippe never seemed to follow his own mantra. Raoul had never caught him with a woman remotely near a bed and any woman without a large personal income or a sizable preen up had ever touched Philippe's highly metaphorical sheets.

With men, it was an entirely different story. Raoul would have been willing to bet that on any given night there was a young man sleeping, waiting in one of the many wings of the estate, for Philippe to finish with his model for the evening and move into his bed. He could have hobos of the street if they were of a young male persuasion. But women; Women, he held to an impossible, bizarre, and often offensive standard.

Raoul was glad more than ever that Christine had found an affordable living arrangement with the Madame Giry. He had, in the past, offered her a room in he and his brother's shared inherited estate. Luckily she had never taken his offer, refusing to stay anywhere for free and determined to pay her own way.

"Psst! Raoul!" a loud drunken voice shouted in the loudest of whispers at his door. Raoul pretended not to hear, happy that the noise in the wall closet had finally stopped.

"Raoul! Open up!" persisted the voice. "It's your brother! Philippe! I have to talk to you!"

There was a long pause.

"BABY BROTHER!"

"What?!" Raoul flung open his bedroom door only to have Philippe crash onto his floor, half naked and laughing maniacally. "Get out, Philippe! I'm trying to sleep!"

When his brother finally calmed down enough to form a string of words, Raoul was considering becoming another of Madame Giry's tenants.

"Sorry baby brother," slurred Philippe, wiggling on the floor. "I'm a little...." he closed one eye, squinting while pinching his thumb and index finger together "...a little, *hic*, drunk."

Philippe winked at him as though this were the most clever secret in the world.

"Don't you have someone else waiting for you?" complained Raoul, rubbing his temples. Philippe quirked an eyebrow.

"You mean Sorelli? He's been here for daaaayyyys. He'll wait for me. He's sleeping off the pills he drank yesterday." Philippe grinned. "Stomach like an ox, my Sorelli."

Raoul rolled his eyes. Sorelli was the male ballerina that kept showing up in Philippe's actual bed for more than just one night. Surprisingly, the two had never been intimate to Raoul's knowledge due to the fact that one or the other was always wasted to the point of unconsciousness every time they managed to find themselves alone. Raoul figured that Sorelli was his brother's longest significant other at over twenty nights of strange cuddling and shared intoxication.

"What do you want?" Raoul snapped.

"To help you get that little cottage girl....wasssit her name?"

"Christine," Raoul managed to say between gritted teeth as Philippe latched onto his leg.

"Christine," hummed Philippe dreamily. "I never approved of her."

"I know," said Raoul huffily, "So why the change of heart now?"

"You need laid," said Philippe somberly.

"And you need sleep and serious medical help," said Raoul, disentangling himself from Philippe's surprisingly strong grip.

"You need to be bolder!" shouted Philippe as Raoul scooped his brother's limp body off the floor. "That girl won't wait for you to make up your mind! You need to strike while the hot is ironed!"

Raoul made a puffing sound of disagreement as he half-pushed, half-dragged Philippe into the hallway. After depositing his giggling brother on the floor, he retreated into his bedroom with a slam of the door.

The room was strangely silent with the absence of Philippe. Raoul heard the tell tale sounds of his brother scampering up the stairs, murmuring something about Sorelli and sighed with relief.

He had just begun to enjoy the first stirrings of peace and quiet, when his phone gave a short buzz on the night stand.

"Meet me on the square tonight"---said the text from Christine.

Raoul resigned himself to not getting any sleep this winter break. And that was the beginning of the night's second adventure.

*****

Despite his better judgment, Raoul found himself following his drunk brother's advice. There he stood, shivering on the square, waiting for Christine so he could show her how boldly he would go into the dark dangerous crime scene of a half-collapsed opera house.

"Raoul!"

He stopped his shivering in an instant as he turned and saw her. Warmth spread through him like an embrace. She was running to him, elated and grinning brighter than all the lights in Paris. Snow clung to her hair and the black sweater jacket on her shoulders. He blinked and time seemed to slow. The snow swirled in his vision and in the instant the street lamp flickered, he felt like he was falling into a dream. He squinted in the light storm, bewildered at the woman rushing toward him, her eyes still bright but the black tights and turtle neck sweater had transformed into dark blue skirts that brushed the cobblestone. A thin shawl flapped on her thin shoulders and he could hardly breathe. There was smoke in the air and he heard hooves and the wheels of carriages in the distance. He found himself reaching for something at his side. His grandfather's pocket watch so he could know the time; know that this moment was real and that his Christine was truly with him.

"I knew you'd come!"

The gentle squeeze on his shoulder startled Raoul out of his stupor. He found himself holding out his phone, the digital numbers reading 1:25 A.M. Christine was beside him. Thin tights showing off strong legs. Her chin was tucked into the top of her turtleneck and both her arms were holding her outer jacket tighter around her body. The sound of a car horn in the distance. The flurry of snow was gone and she was smiling at him clear as day under the single light of the street lamp.

"You ok?" Christine asked, waving a hand in front of his face.

"Yeah, fine," said Raoul thickly.

****

They were down the block in seconds, with Christine keeping them at a near jogging pace. Soon the Palais du Garnier stood before them in all it's former glory. Lit by the sympathetic light of the winter moon.

Christine felt a chill down her spine that had nothing to do with the weather. She turned to Raoul as she stepped over the first round of caution tape. He was looking upward at the intricate designs on the roof of the opera house.

"Don't be scared," she said. "You'll have me with you."

Raoul smiled.

Christine felt lighter and warmer as she touched the handle to one of the great doors of the opera house. She pulled with all her might.

It wouldn't budge.

"Think they've got it blocked off with something behind there?" panted Christine. Raoul edged around her, wrapping his hands around the handle in the space beside hers. They nodded to each other and pulled together.

Christine was practically sitting on the ground before they managed to tug the door open to even a crack. An old, strangely familiar smell drifted out into the cold air as they straitened themselves up from the effort.

With a grin and a giggle, Christine slipped inside without a moment's hesitation. Raoul followed her with worry in his eyes. And both felt, as they crossed the threshold, the unexplainable sensation that they were walking back into time.


	3. She Plays the Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading this far. I have fully planned out the entire story, but if you have an idea or concern about a specific characterization or how a section is written, please feel free to comment about it. I love constructive criticism, especially since I'm very rough with my writing sometimes. 
> 
> Also, I am very sorry about the slow updates. My goal is to at least write a chapter each day and have it edited by the next, so expect regular updates from now on about every two days.

Two thin flashlight beams flickered to life in unison the minute the rusted doors shut behind them. Dust particles flickered in the artificial light that illuminated dull hard floors scattered with splintered wood and all manner of half-charred debris.

Christine jumped as her flashlight beam touched a masked face. Raoul gripped her arm in reassurance, even though he laughed all the while: It was only the bronze face of a faded statue, the metallic folds of its once luscious blanketed visage splayed with the wear of time and the cinders of a once fervent flame; extinguished forever.

"Raoul!" scolded Christine, punching his arm as he choked, holding back laughter.

On closer observation, the pair found that the statue and its twin rested at the base of a once great staircase, leading up no doubt into the folds of the opera house and its famous stage. Time and past tragedy had taken their toll. The first landing on the staircase was covered in wooden planks and metal beams scattered hastily throughout the space. Christine nodded at Raoul, confirming her suspicion that the last construction crew had left in a hurry.

After the landing, the stair split into two and each side was blocked by the crumbling remains of what looked like a pillar that once held part of the floor above. The decorative metalwork meant to shine just below the ceiling had collapsed, crumbling away from a second floor that looked ready to cave in at any moment.

Raoul grunted when Christine tapped his arm, shining her light toward a hinge-less doorway to the left of the stairs. The way appeared to be clear. Other than the plethora of cobwebs sweeping from the ceiling like rustic banisters.

Raoul quirked an eyebrow.

"So," he began, utterly at a loss and slightly underwhelmed. "Are we looking for clues like Sherlock Holmes? Or are we hoping to get spooked and run around like a two person Scooby Gang?"

"We're just seeing what we can see," said Christine, jutting out her chin with a little shake of her head.

"I think we've seen it," said Raoul dryly, noting what looked like a small rat scuttling into the caved in left breast of a broken statue.

"Oh Raoul! Where's your sense of adventure?"

Raoul rolled his eyes. Then frowned. "Are those _walkie talkies_?"

"Just in case," Christine defended herself, as if this were the most obvious answer in the world.

"We have cell phones, you know."

Christine was happy it was dark, because she knew her face must have turned an impressive shade of scarlet. She did not want Raoul seeing her embarrassment, or worse: thinking he was right.

"Well," she said huffily. "Cell phones might not have service in haunted areas like the Paris Opera House, _Raoul_."

"You actually think this place is haunted?" Raoul grinned.

"How else would you explain the disappearance of that student?"

Raoul crossed his arms. "A misunderstanding....an elaborate prank..."

"But look!" Christine shuffled closer to him, pulling out a crumpled set of newspapers and clippings from the small satchel at her hip. "It says that the student who disappeared was researching the legends of this place."

Raoul bend forward to study the page.

 _....graduated with a major in folklore and a minor in theatre. Before his disappearance, he began his thesis on the urban legends of Paris with the Opera House being his primary focus of study....._ "Do we know the student's name?" asked Raoul.

"That's the weird part," said Christine pointing to another section of the article: _Police have not released the name of the missing student, the Chief Commissioner commented yesterday saying that to divulge this detail may hinder the investigation._

"So, what does any of this have to do with ghosts?"

No sooner had the words left his mouth did both Raoul and Christine's flashlights flicker out. They froze in the darkness, the fine hairs on their necks bristling as a strange sound echoed into the deserted entryway from the depths of the Opera House: A wavering voice raised in song.


	4. Christine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this were a series of notes from the Opera Ghost to Messrs.' Andre and Firmin instead of a serial story, they would have forgotten that the Phantom even existed. I'm so sorry this is late. 
> 
> Thank you avengers1team and dearest_fearist for commenting. I really appreciate it. Thank you all so much for reading.

Blinded for only a moment.

But a moment was all it took for blindness to daze and for the veil of darkness that shrouds unconscious dreams to descend. One moment, Christine remembered being beside her friend, listening to the strange wilting song from within the bowls of the Opera, and the next her eyes were blinking open to the soft glow of candlelight.

She sat up, head spinning from jolting upright so fast. Soft fabric beneath her hands. Candlelight. Her vision swam and the scents and smells of must and age filtered together with the aroma of the candles. She had no concept of space or time, dizzy for many uncounted moments.

Christine found herself sprawled on a chair, cushions slightly torn at the edges and rust stains hinting at age. It creaked when she moved, and she felt a sudden jolt that comes with the fear of falling.  
Gathering her senses with a few deep breaths, she dared to glance around the dimly lit space. Christine found herself in a room that reminded her immediately of the parlor of and old mansion she had visited when she was very young. Nearly everything looked fragile and aged, from the chairs and fainting couches with their cushions still barely intact, to the dusty vanity at the back, its mirror fogged and hazy. The long horizontal handles on the doors were decorated in a light floral pattern, chipped and cracked with years of neglect.

And yet, among these objects weary with time were freshly lit candles. Vases cracked and splintered as dry desert earth held blooming flowers still vibrant. Someone had been in this room. Perhaps even mere minutes ago.

This frightened Christine beyond anything she had seen in the old Opera house. But fright soon gave way to a burning in her heart as she took it all in.

There was something endearing about the little box closed on the vanity. She had the immediate urge to know what was inside it, the moment she laid eyes on it. Her solitary situation, her fear, everything was forgotten as she sprung from her place in the chair.

Her hands trembled as she reached for the little unassuming object. She brushed the dust off the top almost tenderly as she undid the clasp and tipped the lid back.

Inside was a pair of beautiful earrings that shone like silver stars. They glistened as she touched one long strand that began with a single pointed star dangling down to another and ending in a glistening teardrop piece that seemed to glow softly. Christine wondered if it could be a real pearl. One touch made her go hot and cold all at once. She felt the beginnings of tears in her eyes as she remembered the words to a song she never recalled listening to before. A sweet aria.

The room suddenly felt cozy. It reminded her of the time she first saw Madame Giry and Meg after a long winter vacation with her estranged parents. She cried when they embraced. She had finally returned home.

This place. The flowers, and the old furniture, the jewelry and the memory of an old song. They made her feel as though she was returning to a place she never hoped to find again. Like stepping back in time to a sweet memory of childhood after growing old.

A little mark on one leg of the vanity caught her eye, and she stooped down for a closer look. Carved into the wood in a childish scrawl were the words “Little Lottie.” The phrase struck another nostalgic chord with Christine and her heart sang as she traced each letter with a fingertip.

She clutched the earrings in her thin fingers and wept, smiling giddily. She was disoriented and confused, yet happy all the same. Somehow she was meant to be her. Her heart had returned home.  
The fine hairs on her arms stood up straight as a chill passed through the air. The candles on every surface flickered. Christine felt a kind of fear returning to her. A sensation passed through her unbidden. The feeling of being watched.

Her eyes were drawn to the mirror. She wiped off the dust with her sleeve and drew back with a small cry.

There was a girl staring back at her, tears streaming down her face. She looked about Christine’s age, large brown eyes glistening and her red lips pulled in the smallest of smiles. Her radiant curls were bunched together, pulled up in a style punctuated with little hair clips that shone just like the stars on the pair of earrings she still held in her hands. The same earrings that blinked silver in the light dangling from the woman’s ears in the mirror. She wore a lovely dress. Something that Christine always dreamed about. Like a fairy tale.

When Christine brushed the tears from her cheeks, the girl in the mirror did the same. She remembered something then. Sleeping in a cramped space as a child surrounded by other little girls. Dancing. Singing. Ballet.

And the tune of that strange lovely little aria floating through it all.

And a voice. Like an angel.

“My angel.”

Christine was startled from the mirror. She stood nearly toppling the chair in front of the vanity. The voice had been a whisper. Deep and haunting. Almost sad. It echoed on the walls of her heart, calling to her and yet stirring some foreign fear.

She was drawn to the object at the back of the room. Covered in a white sheet. Somehow, she knew what it was even as she pulled the fabric away.

The mirror towered over her head, its frame looming toward her. Her hazy reflection seemed to be swallowed in its depths. A figure stood behind it, or rather beyond, within the mirror itself.

For a moment she was afraid.

And then her heart melted with the gentle notes that the dark shadow beyond the mirror began to sing.


End file.
